The King Read online

  In the palace library there was a book containing a series of paintings of Napoleon. The shah often took the book from the bookcase and leafed through it. In his youth he had been taught by the vizier that he must always emulate history’s greatest examples.

  The vizier reported on the negotiations he had conducted with the British and on the guarantee that the rebels would not be punished.

  ‘So they are calling the shots,’ responded the shah sullenly.

  ‘The British are doing everything they can to secure their position in India. We’ve got to learn to live with that reality. We are trying to give the country a modern face, so there’s no room for turmoil. The seven rebellious brothers will be brought to Your Majesty. They will kneel before you and ask your forgiveness, and Your Majesty may pardon them in the name of brotherhood. Thus peace will be restored – for the time being.’

  ‘Brotherhood? These are no brothers of ours. What our father did not beget with my mother is not a brother,’ said the shah angrily.

  ‘This is the best solution to the problem. It would be good if you were to talk to the brothers and put the interests of the country above family matters. Your mother will not be amenable to a pardon, but in granting it you know you will have made a wise decision.’

  The words of the vizier tempered the shah’s rage. The brothers would kneel before him and beg for mercy.

  Mirza Kabir then went on to explain the reforms in the army, for which the shah had already studied the contracts. The French did good work, but the costs were high.

  ‘Yes, that has always been my concern,’ said the shah. ‘How are we going to cover the costs? The vizier keeps telling us the treasury is empty.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said the vizier with a smile, ‘God loves our country. The empire has been truly blessed. We have immense riches: rough gems, gold and silver lying about everywhere. The French know that. We are now involved in talks with them, and when the time is right I will provide Your Majesty with detailed information concerning the proposals.’

  The shah was satisfied with the vizier’s course of action.

  Now that the shah was in a good mood the vizier seized the opportunity and continued speaking: ‘We have a beautiful country, a rich country, but there has not been a stable government here in centuries. The fate of the country is in the shah’s hands. The wealthy families think only of themselves. They frustrate all our plans. If we want to build a factory, they refuse to part with even a metre of their property. Why do they need so much land, so many houses, so many villages? They bring in teachers from abroad to instruct their children in French and the new sciences, while the peasants are kept in ignorance.’

  The vizier paused. ‘I have invested all my hope for change in Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘All I desire is your active contribution.’

  The shah had listened in silence. ‘The vizier has poured the same words into our ears over and over again,’ he replied crossly. ‘We have heard you. You may go.’

  Upon his return to the palace at the end of the afternoon the shah was told by the chamberlain that his mother, the queen, was waiting for him in the hall of mirrors.

  ‘Mother, what brings you here so unexpectedly?’

  He embraced his mother and kissed her on the head. Dispensing with civilities Mahdolia took aim.

  ‘I have heard that your rebellious half-brothers will be appearing before the shah tomorrow to beg for mercy. So I rode here in great haste.’

  ‘They are my brothers,’ said the king, trying to defend himself.

  ‘Apparently the shah does not know the history of his own family. They are not your full brothers. Your father was ruthless in pushing his brothers aside, and your grandfather had his brothers butchered because they made a claim for power. Everyone is aghast that the king wants to receive these vicious men. The tale of the brothers is well known in Persian history. Kings have always had their brothers eliminated without mercy. Now it’s your turn, and if you so much as hesitate they will destroy you. How often must I tell you that you cannot trust the vizier? You are the king, the representative of God on earth. This is all about the throne, and the throne is not yours alone. It also belongs to those who succeed us. You must show your brothers no mercy. For mercy they must appeal to God.’

  There was nothing the shah could say. His mother’s argument was unassailable. But so was the vizier’s.

  ‘Listen,’ his mother went on, ‘your half-brothers have received money and weapons from the British, and the vizier is secretly representing British interests. That is why he’s trying to solve the problem this way. Your brothers should be hung, each and every one of them. That is the advice of Sheikh Aqasi. You are the king. I have said all I need to say.’ And with that she left.

  The shah stood in the middle of the hall of mirrors. He picked up the cat, who was pressing herself against his legs. ‘Did you hear what she said? She wants to see blood. Woman is the mother of all misery. What should I do, Sharmin?’

  The cat turned her head towards the library.

  ‘Shall we consult Hafez?’ asked the shah, and he let Sharmin jump down from his arms. The collection of poetry by the great medieval poet was a source of counsel for all Persians, poor and rich, if they had no one else to turn to. As tradition dictated the shah kissed the cover of the book, shut his eyes and opened it to a random page.

  Mi-barad baran-e raham-at khoda-ye man

  Pour over me, O Lord,

  From the clouds of thy bounteous mercy

  The rain of forgiveness

  That falls ever faster on my grave,

  Before I, like dust on the wind, from corn to chaff,

  Rise up and fly away, past the knowledge of men …

  Incredulous the shah read the poem through once more. Hafez was speaking in no uncertain terms to the shah himself. He was talking frankly about forgiveness – a rain of forgiveness, in fact – and about the principle of mercy.

  He paced the room to and fro with the book in his hand. Should he try once more, just to be sure? If Hafez were to speak of mercy again, then he would choose the rain of mercy. He repeated the ritual.

  Never have I laid my eyes on

  More sweet-voiced verses than yours, O Hafez!

  This I dare to swear on the Quran

  That you carry in your bosom …

  Hafez had not changed his mind, but now he advised the shah to consult the Quran. He mentioned the Quran by name; that was clear. The shah kissed the book of poetry, put it back on the shelf and turned his gaze to the Quran that was lying on a separate table in a green cloth slipcase. He went to the dining room and washed his hands under the small gold tap, dried them, went back to the library and picked up the holy book. He removed it from its slipcase with great care, kissed it, closed his eyes, opened the book reverently and studied the surah word for word.

  Tabbat yada Abi Lahaben wa tabba

  Destroyed will be

  the hands of Abu Lahab,

  and he himself will perish.

  Of no avail shall be his wealth,

  nor what he has acquired.

  He will be roasted in the fire,

  And his wife,

  the carrier of firewood,

  Will have a strap of twisted rope round her neck.

  This surah was about the uncle of the Prophet Muhammad, a man named Abu Lahab, who had done everything he could to prevent Muhammad from carrying out his mission and once had even devised a plan to kill him. Muhammad had had him severely punished.

  The counsel of the Quran was indisputable, and the shah felt a burden drop from his shoulders. He kissed the book, put it back on the table and walked to the dining room. Then he sat down and waited for the chamberlain to bring him his meal.

  But doubt once again rose within him. To whom should he listen, Hafez or the Quran? Did Muhammad actually punish his uncle? He spoke harshly to him and wished for his hands to be broken, but he had not actually broken his hands. So what should he do now with his seven half-brothers?
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  His appetite had left him. Shah Naser walked to his bedroom. It was not yet time to sleep, but the shah crept into bed fully dressed.

  The Persian elite and their kings were not committed believers as a rule. They had great respect for the text of the Quran but would have nothing to do with the culture of the Arabs, who had destroyed the Persian Empire, and this included the practise of Arabic rituals. The vizier was not a man of prayer, nor had he raised the shah to pray, but he did teach him to turn to God whenever he felt anxious or uncertain, as all the kings before him had done. And so that night the shah rose from his sleepless bed, washed his hands and face, and turned towards Mecca.

  The next morning, after bathing, he went to the hall of mirrors. He ate a hearty breakfast and spent some time drawing as a diversion. To calm his nerves he drew a teapot and an apple in a fruit bowl. The sun was already at its apex. He put on his military uniform, pulled his sword from its sheath and played with it in front of the mirror.

  The chamberlain came in and told him his seven half-brothers were awaiting him in the golden hall. The golden hall was where the shah gave great public parties and where he received officers and merchants.

  The shah glanced at himself in the mirror once more, drew a white-gloved hand across his moustache and walked to the hall, where a pair of officers was waiting for him.

  ‘His Majesty!’ shouted a high-ranking officer.

  A soldier blew on his trumpet and the shah entered the hall, accompanied by officers carrying the flag of the Persian Empire.

  At the doorway he cast a glance at his seven brothers, who were standing with their heads bowed. The high-ranking officer made a gesture and all of them knelt down in a single movement with their heads touching the floor as a sign of humility.

  ‘Rise!’ cried the shah. There was a friendly tone to his voice that dispelled the oppressive atmosphere. His brothers summoned up their courage and looked at the shah. Addressing them he said, ‘It is a blessed moment. Our homeland is unified once again, and we are happy. Our brothers must understand that whatever we do, we do for our country, and that accordingly we are following in the footsteps of the kings who went before us. The decision that has been made is a decision made for the country by God himself.’

  He thrust out his hand and had his brothers come forward one by one to kiss it. Then he walked over to a table. On the table were a quill pen, an ink pot and paper. The shah picked up the quill and wrote a few words. He signed the document, pressed his signet ring into the ink-pad and placed his seal beneath his signature. Then he folded up the paper and handed it personally to the high-ranking officer.

  That same evening the shah’s brothers were hung in the bazaar square. The next morning the people who came to the bazaar saw the gallows and the seven men hanging motionless from the ropes.

  As soon as he heard the report of the execution the vizier hastened to the palace.

  ‘How could this happen?’ he said to the shah.

  The shah did not respond.

  ‘I asked you to pardon them. By committing this deed the shah will unleash chaos in the country. Everyone is afraid. No one trusts us any more. It is impossible to hold the country together with bullets and gallows. We must engage in politics. Why did the shah make this decision?’

  ‘We are the shah! England can go to hell. We do not have to answer to anyone.’

  ‘But the country must be governed!’ said the vizier in a fury.

  Without saying a word the shah withdrew behind the curtain, leaving the vizier to stand helpless in the hall of mirrors.

  10. Taj, the Daughter of the Shah

  The king had many daughters, but little Taj Olsultan was different. She was born of the marriage with Foruq, who was a woman of the Qajar tribe, the same tribe as that of the shah. Foruq was also the shah’s cousin.

  Foruq was expected to bear a son for the monarchy who would later succeed the shah. Dozens of sons had been produced by the other wives, but they didn’t count. Only a son of Foruq could be the crown prince. As fate would have it, however, she did not immediately become pregnant. The entire royal medical staff examined her, and all the aged women of the tribe included her in their lengthy prayers. Female shamans from every corner of the land were admitted to her bedside until finally she was found to be with child. Great was the joy. But instead of a son she bore a daughter, who was given the name Taj Olsultan.

  Now there was hope and the shah could often be found in Foruq’s bed. But to everyone’s great disappointment Foruq bore four more daughters. After the last daughter was born the shah stopped sleeping with her.

  Foruq complained to the queen, who called the shah to account. ‘How dare you? What does this mean, seeking the solace of other women? Foruq is the only one who can give you an heir.’

  ‘I am neither willing nor able,’ said the shah.

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘I am not able to sleep with her.’

  ‘Why not?’ shouted his mother.

  ‘I am a man, and I cannot function any more with Foruq,’ he confessed.

  ‘Then think of something. Or the sons of your other wives will rise up in revolt later on and tear the country into a hundred pieces.’

  ‘That changes nothing. If I can’t, I can’t. It is undoubtedly God’s will. We must not be ungrateful. Perhaps life has something else in store for us: perhaps our daughter Taj Olsultan will bear a son for us.’

  ‘The shah must stop this nonsense. She is only a child.’

  ‘When she is grown, we will look for a suitable husband for her from our own tribe. You know our history. Such things happen. Our father was a good example. He was not the son of the ruling king. No, he was the son of the king’s brother. We don’t know what secrets life holds. Let us be patient and wait.’

  From that moment on Taj Olsultan was treated like a precious jewel.

  The shah always went to see his daughter whenever he felt sad. According to custom the wife who bore the crown prince did not live in the harem. Her children were regarded as princes. Because Taj Olsultan was the shah’s favourite and would one day produce an heir for him, she did not live in the harem with the other women and children. She had a separate apartment of her own, where one of the shah’s old retainers cared for her as if she were a queen.

  The night the shah’s half-brothers were hung, the shah could not sleep. He had nightmares and dreamt that he too was hanging from a gallows and that the wind was playing with his body. Even though he had been hung he was still alive. Looking down from the gallows he could see masses of people gazing up at him. He tried to cry for help, but the cord round his neck stifled his voice, and his hands had been tied behind his back. His felt his soul slipping away. Gathering all his strength he tried to move his legs to show that he was still alive, but this just caused the cord to tighten even more round his throat. He woke up drenched in sweat.

  Dazed, he drank two glasses of water from a pitcher on a nearby table. Then he pulled the curtain aside. It was still dark. Slowly he realised that he should not have had his brothers hung, that this act would unleash waves of hostility in the land and that God would punish him severely. He should have listened to the vizier.

  The shah picked up the lantern. Followed by his curious cat he left the palace through the back door and entered the garden of the living quarters where his favourite daughter slept, pushing the door open with great care. The old servant woke immediately.

  ‘Is she asleep?’ he whispered. ‘That’s fine then. Let her sleep. I’m going to rest here.’

  Straightaway the woman placed a mattress on the floor beside the girl’s bed. The shah lay down and his cat nestled at his feet. The old woman pulled a blanket over him and bolted the door.

  Early in the morning she gently wakened the girl.

  ‘The king is sleeping here,’ she said.

  The girl smiled, got out of bed and crept under the blanket with the shah. ‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ she whispered in his ear.

  The shah open
ed his eyes and threw his arm round her. ‘Bonjour, madame. Comment ça va, ma fille?’

  ‘Very well, Father.’

  ‘Have you been working hard on your French?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘And your English?’

  ‘Not very hard, Shah-my-Father.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Your doctor speaks to me in French whenever he sees me and it’s funny. But I don’t like English.’

  ‘Like it or not – learn their language; you’re going to need it.’

  ‘But it’s so difficult,’ she complained.

  ‘Enough. Come and massage my back,’ he said, rolling over on his stomach.

  The girl stood on his back and massaged his shoulders with her feet.

  ‘How delightful to have such a daughter,’ sighed the shah.

  ‘But you have so many daughters,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘That’s not true. They are the daughters of our wives. I have just one daughter and that is you. The other girls are not mine.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Taj Olsultan with surprise.

  ‘Because you are the only one I love,’ said the shah.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You are my own flesh and blood, and my firstborn. Let me tell you a secret. I want to revise the law so that later you can become the shah.’

  ‘The shah?’

  ‘You will succeed me.’

  ‘But that’s impossible. I’m a girl.’

  ‘Catherine, the queen of Russia, was also a girl, but she became one of the most powerful women ever. I want you to become just as powerful.’

  ‘What do you have to know to be shah?’

  ‘We will teach you everything.’ The shah was already looking forward to the lessons.

  ‘But I don’t want to be a queen. Why don’t you ask my mother?’

  ‘Your mother? We have no need of her.’